


Old Friend

by orphan_account



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-02 13:24:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20276605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Crowley has a surprise guest, and they need some comforting.





	Old Friend

Life had been strange ever since the world didn't end. Crowley and Aziraphale were much more casual and frequent with their meetings, and recently the angel had suggested a holiday together — a cottage in South Downs, for a week. He'd found the specificity of the request a bit odd, but then again he wasn't the only one who'd grown… attached… over these millennia.

Crowley was debating whether he should pack his ripped jeans for the trip. He'd only worn them once, back in 2015, and the look Aziraphale had given him kept him awake for days. He couldn't risk having those instincts again, too dangerous. But there was no danger anymore, at least for the time being.

His doorbell buzzed. Aziraphale would typically miracle his way past the main entrance and knock on his door, and as Crowley didn't tend to hold guests, this came at quite the surprise. Even more of a surprise was who he saw on the security feed.

"Warlock?" He asked over the speaker, "Is that really you?"

"Um, yes," the child said. "I'm looking for Ms. Ashtoreth?"

Crowley unlocked the door. "Come in, dear boy," he said.

Warlock only had to knock once before Crowley opened the door.

"What brings you here, lad?"

The child froze. Nervous — no, anxious, Crowley thought. He used his head to gesture towards the flat, letting the door fall open as he did so.

"Are you her brother?" Warlock asked, following Crowley inside.

Crowley took a good look at his old "godson." Last they saw each other, Warlock was accustomed to dark colors and scowling. Now, adorned with mostly black and a pop of pastel, the teen wore chains and bracelets, and had shorter hair, which was styled in a way that made it look like a cotton ball. Clearly an at-home job, but one that, for some reason or another, worked nonetheless. Not only that, Crowley noticed freckles, atop a subtle pompadour pink blush and moderate-to-heavy eyeliner.

Something about this felt important. A statement was being made here. He remembered, years ago, seeing people dressed in similar ways; aspects taken from both the performative masculine and the extravagant feminine, a combination meant to do one thing: distract — usually from the wearer's physical features.

"Heh, ah… No, I'm not," Crowley said. He was met with a look of confusion. "Let's just say your nanny left not only because you were changing, but because… he was changing."

Crowley gave Warlock a wink to accentuate his point. A big, bright smile slowly crawled across the child's face.

"I knew this would be a good idea! I know it's been years but I always remembered you being so kind, or at least patient, which Mum and Dad certainly weren't, and—"

"Woah, woah, woah, there, calm yourself," Crowley said. "What's going on?"

Warlock took a breath. "I'm nonbinary," they said, "and I told Mum and Dad, and it's the first time they've seen me like this before, and… it wasn't… horrible… but it wasn't great either."

Crowley's expression softened. He'd heard stories of people hurting (even killing) their children for saying such things, and the Dowlings certainly seemed the type. Crowley would never admit it, but his eyes were swelling with pride.

"I remember you were always so nice in your way, and I don't know why, but I was drawn to it. Nostalgia, I guess. But anyway I had this gut feeling that I should find you — that you'd understand. So I tore apart Dad's office to find your records, and I grabbed some money from my room for bus fare, and well… here I am."

Crowley smiled. A child, faced with rejection, possibly their worst fear, came to him for comfort. He took Warlock's hand in both of his.

"You," he started, just now realizing how shaky his breath is, "have braved the pit, my dear. And you did not come out unscathed, but you are alive. And you are safe. And it hurts, I know it does, but," he held Warlock's cheek in his left hand. They leaned in. He continued:

"You have and eternity ahead of you. And it'll feel hopeless a lot of the time, and overwhelmingly beautiful a hell of a lot more."

Warlock, tears in their eyes, swooped in and embraced Crowley. It only broke when his phone rang.

"Crowley." He answered. "Yes it is... Yes they are, safe and sound… Right, will do. No worries, Mr. Dowling."

"He wants to know where I am?" Warlock asked, an unmistakable tinge of hope in their voice.

"Yes, and it sounds to me like he wants to have a chat." Crowley went to his desk and pulled out a pen and pad.

"I don't want to go home yet."

"But you must," he said, jotting something down before handing Warlock the paper. "We can always talk, Warlock."

"Thanks, nanny."

Crowley smiled, holding out his hand.

"Call me Anthony," he said.


End file.
